


what man has made of man

by the_eighth_sin



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bad Sex, Dubious Consent, Hooker Fic, M/M, Prostitution
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-28
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-23 21:15:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4892503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_eighth_sin/pseuds/the_eighth_sin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Brandon is a cop and Shawsy is the hooker who steals his heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LightsOut](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightsOut/gifts).



> I started writing this during my first year of uni, and as of today I'm in my second week of 3rd year. Basically what I'm saying is that for less than 10k this story has been a long time in the making.
> 
> Usual disclaimer: This is fiction. It's me imposing my thoughts and feelings on constructs based on real people and should not be viewed as anything other than fiction. Please do not share this with anyone portrayed in it and we'll get along just fine. Thank you!
> 
> A few notes: Can we just pretend STD’s aren’t a thing? Like, we all know to practice safe sex, especially when sleeping with a kid who is a prostitute.
> 
> I know this probably isn't a particularly accurate portrayal of real life sex work, so instead I try to look at it as me trying my hand at writing 'hooker fic' in the fandom tradition, not as a reflection of life, but as a reflection of the trope.
> 
> There is some inherent dub con throughout, purely because Brandon is technically in a position of power over Shawsy, being a policeman and all, but for all intents and purposes,, Shawsy is of sound mind and does enthusiastically consent to their relationship. I hope I made that clear.
> 
> With regards to the RAPE/NON CON TAG, I just wanted to cover all of my bases. There is no explicit non consensual sex depicted here.
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this as much as I've loved writing it.

Brandon dreams about helping people in that absent way kids dream about being superheroes. Being a fireman or a doctor or a police officer is Brandon's astronaut and Superman, and unlike other kids his age, those dreams stick. He’s not smart enough to go to medical school, and his mom vetoes being a fireman when he’s 11, but he passes through the academy with flying colours and he’s on the beat in the mean streets of Chicago by the time he’s 22.

He’s been working for just over a year when he meets Shawsy, except he’s not Shawsy at first, he’s the kid Brandon's about to arrest for solicitation. He’s run into a couple of girls doing this before, on their knees or their backs for bored businessmen in rumpled two piece suits, but he’s never seen this kid before, short dark hair and a pointed chin, serious eyes and a red, swollen mouth. 

The kid spits onto the ground and scrubs a hand over his face as Brandon approaches them, him and the sleazebag he’s with. He should take them both in really, for indecent exposure and solicitation respectively, but he gets a little lost in the wide grin being flashed his way and when he turns to wrestle the pinstriped dick into his car, the kid makes a break for it. 

It’s not worth chasing him when Brandon never actually saw any cash exchange hands—he figures that transaction must have already happened or the kid would have been more than a little pissed to see his paycheck getting carted off to the station.

He sees the kid again about a week later, cruising the area with his partner. She’s jabbering on about her two teenaged daughters getting into yet another fight and Brandon only spots him out of the corner of his eye, drops the car down into a crawl to get a better look. He's lounging against a lamppost, thumbs hooked into the sagging waistband of his jeans, pulling them down far enough that Brandon can see the beginnings of dark curling hair peeking out the top. 

It's pretty cold out and the kid keeps scrubbing at his nose, but other than that he seems to be completely unbothered by the fact that it’s November and absolutely frigid. Brandon tunes out his partner and thinks about walking over there and handing the kid his coffee, letting him warm his hands on the polystyrene cup. He gets his foot on the gas instead and pulls away as unobtrusively as possible.

Two days later, he’s at the station, pile of paperwork from yesterday’s gun related arrests teetering in his arms, when the kid is led inside by one of the undercover guys. It’s all a bit of a sham, really, they can’t actually prosecute when the charge is ‘intent to solicit’ and it was probably entrapment on their part too. It’s not a real charge: the only thing he actually said was ‘yes’ when the plainclothes officer asked him whether he’d accept 20 bucks for a blowjob.

Brandon dumps the paperwork on his desk and wanders back to watch the kid get processed, tries to lean nonchalantly against the wall and fails by a wide margin. He actually stumbles over his own feet when the kid winks at him, tongue slipping teasingly across his bottom lip. He walks away, making sure to cross behind the front desk so he can take a look at the computer screen. He manages to read ‘Andrew Shaw’ and the fact that Andrew is just 19 out of the corner of his eye. 

Brandon knew he was young, but he didn’t know he was that young. Too young to be doing what he does. Too young to be standing on street corners in the middle of winter, trying to look tantalising enough that some sleazy businessman will bend him over in a back alley for the cash in his back pocket.

-

Brandon starts seeing Andrew everywhere after that, at the diner down the street and the park near Brandon’s apartment where he goes running, at the grocery store and the dry cleaners. He smiles and mutters, "Hey," while he pours soap powder into the machine. Andrew loads handfuls of torn jeans and greying wife beaters into the washer and Brandon says, “Careful or you’ll have nothing left to wear, Andrew.” 

It’s a joke that he would make to anybody, but Andrew’s face shutters almost immediately and Brandon could kick himself. This kid sells himself for money, obviously he can’t afford new clothes very often. With jerky movements, he continues to load clothes into the machine and Brandon’s mind is whirring, trying desperately to work out what he can do to apologise. He won’t take money, Brandon knows that, knows how proud kids like Andrew can be, but maybe he can buy him lunch or something. He’s so busy freaking the fuck out, he doesn’t notice Andrew coming over to him.

“Call me Shawsy,” he says, a little gruffly, not meeting Brandon’s eyes for a second. 

When he does, Brandon’s stomach lurches, heart in his throat and he swallows down the tide of emotions this whole exchange is flooding his chest with and opens his mouth to reply. Before he can, Andrew— _Shawsy_ , he corrects himself—turns away and Brandon can’t hang around him any longer without it looking like something it absolutely isn’t. At all.

-

It takes months before Shawsy will come back to his place. They go for lunch twice, completely unplanned, both just seem to frequent the diner near Shawsy’s street corner and the station. Brandon can be patient, and he keeps inviting Shawsy in, especially when they have a snowfall so heavy it’s almost up to Brandon’s knees and yet, when he drives past that night, Shawsy is still standing on the corner in his ripped jeans and thin wifebeater, unzipped windbreaker hanging from his shoulders. 

It only really happens in the end because a john got a little too grabby and when Brandon spies the way Shawsy is bleeding sluggishly from his nose, mopping at his top lip with his hand, he refuses to let it go. Shawsy’s bleeding from tiny cuts all along his shoulders and, Brandon would bet, his hips. 

Luckily, Brandon is at the tail end of his shift, so he pulls up and parks his car (he learnt his lesson about idling at the curb last week, when a girl even younger looking than Shawsy wandered over and offered him a blowjob). He gets out and locks his car, walking over determined and ready for a fight.

“You should get that checked out,” he says, trying to look nonthreatening, hunching his shoulders as best he can to hide the bulk of his shoulders and arms.

“Nah,” Shawsy says after a second, “It’s not broken.” 

There’s a heavy pause before Brandon crumbles. “Please. At least let me take a look?” 

He’s expecting a fight. Instead, Shawsy looks tired and downtrodden, and he just says quietly, “Alright.” 

Brandon’s already setting up to convince him, so there’s an awkward pause before he says, faux positive, “Okay then.”

He ushers Shawsy ahead of him and into the car, turning down the heat in the hope that it won’t agitate Shawsy’s sluggishly bleeding nose. His place isn’t too far away and he gets them parked up and into the stairwell within 15 minutes. He tries not to smile too widely when he fits his key into the lock and catches Shawsy looking around, obviously distracted. 

His dogs come bounding up to the door as soon as they hear the click of the lock and he can hear them nudging each other out of the way in the hallway. He flicks on the lights and ushers Shawsy ahead of him, calling a quiet hello to the dogs, running a gentle hand over Lila’s head. His cats are curled up together in their usual spot on the windowsill and they flick lazy tails in his direction when he passes. 

He leaves Shawsy in the living room and steps into the bathroom to rummage around for his first aid kit. Brandon can see the vaguely baffled look on Shawsy’s face as he looks at the collage of photographs arranged on the wall. There are a number of him steadying a baby elephant on its shaky legs, another with orangutans hanging from his arms and clinging to his legs, surrounded by the deep green of the Bolivian forests. 

There are photos of Lila there too, some right after he rescued her, when she was more bone than dog, giant swathes of pink skin where she’d been sewn back together in frames opposite one of her a few months later, healthy and glowing, tongue lolling against Brandon’s sleeve where he held their winning rosette and the fly ball course in the background.

He calls Shawsy into the bathroom, rather than coming up behind him in the living room. Shawsy jumps slightly before flushing, stepping into the echoing bathroom, and standing by the counter top. His nose has stopped bleeding and Brandon hands him a warm cloth so that he can wipe his face, and stands back to grab the antibacterial cream.

“Can you, uh, your shirt?” Brandon asks, embarrassed suddenly, and forcibly shaking off the awkwardness that comes immediately afterwards. He’s _helping_ Shawsy and that makes him entirely different to the johns that hurt him. Shawsy hums affirmatively and shrugs out of his shirt, hissing when the material catches on his shoulders and pulls at the raw skin.

There are ten distinct cuts on his shoulder and neck where the john has obviously held Shawsy still, and eight marks along his collarbones, livid under the stark white lights. The two on his back are more grooves than cuts and Shawsy hisses when Brandon presses gentle fingers to them and works cream onto them in careful circles. Shawsy turns around so that Brandon can get to the cuts on his front, resting against the countertop and hissing quietly through his teeth at the sting. 

Brandon can see into the mirror over Shawsy’s head and he keeps glancing away from the wide expanse of Shawsy’s chest, eyes catching on the dark blush of his own cheeks in his reflection. By the time he’s finished, hands working absentmindedly in circles over the patches of undamaged skin, his face is flaming hot and red spots are obvious high up on his cheeks. Shawsy is listing exhaustedly against the sink and Brandon is glad that he hasn’t seemed to notice the turn his thoughts kept taking. 

Brandon steps away finally, and Shawsy lets out a surprised huff and props himself up on the tile.

“Sandwich?” Brandon asks and takes Shawsy’s silence as acceptance, herding him into the kitchen with the bulk of his body. Rusty follows them and Brandon realises with a guilty pulse that he hasn’t fed the dogs yet. He lays out their bowls quickly, pointing Shawsy to the other side of the kitchen when he hears the skittering of claws on the hardwood. The three smallest dogs trip over each other in their efforts to get to their dinner and Lila lopes elegantly in behind them, waiting for a space to open up before she sneaks in between and starts eating too.

He washes his hands again and starts assembling sandwiches, looking over to check every time he adds another ingredient, doesn’t want to make something Shawsy doesn’t eat. He never once shakes his head though, instead propping up the wall and watching Brandon spread butter on bread and fold layers of cold cuts and salad on top.

They settle on the couch and Lila curls up on Shawsy’s feet like a particularly bony blanket. Rusty does a running jump to sit on the back of the couch cushions and stare mournfully at their loaded plates. Shawsy is falling asleep where he sits, obviously exhausted and Brandon doesn’t even think before he blurts,

“You can stay here tonight, if you want.” He flinches immediately afterwards at the way Shawsy jerks himself upright and shakes his head wildly,

“No, I’ll go.” He’s dressed and out the door before Brandon can explain himself and he sighs, sitting for a second and running a hand over his face before he cleans up their plates and collapses into bed. He's exhausted but can't help and think about the feel of Shawsy's shoulders under his hands, the thin skin of his bony hips and the soft droopy way his eyelids dipped when he was tired, eating on autopilot and oblivious to the sharp eyed stare Brandon had on him. 

He presses his hips into the bed absentmindedly, the hot embers of arousal in his stomach. He's too tired to do anything about it, so he shifts enough that the lay of his dick isn't uncomfortable and drops off to sleep within seconds. He dreams about Shawsy that night, asleep on the bed beside him, looking warm and soft in a too big tshirt of Brandon’s. It’s not the first time Shawsy has appeared in Brandon’s dreams, and he doubts it’ll be the last.

-

They establish something of a routine after that. Brandon stopping by on his way home from the late late shift and picking Shawsy up for sandwiches or, on one notable night, grilled cheese.

It carries on like that for a week or two, Brandon watching closely as Shawsy scarfs down the food and then dozes on his sofa with the various dogs and cats spread across his feet and lap. The twins like Shawsy better than they like Brandon, even though _Brandon_ rescued them from a dumpster when they were tiny little kittens, all matted fur and big green eyes.

Brandon’s pretty far gone on Shawsy, has a hard time not reaching out and throwing an arm around his shoulders when they’re on the sofa, or catching his hand when they walk side by side on the street. It’s the night Shawsy turns up at their unofficial meeting place with a busted lip and an obviously broken nose, eyes glassy and far away, that Brandon realises how far gone he really is.

He takes Shawsy gently by the chin and asks, “Who fucking did this?”

"It's nothing. They like it, I get paid. It's fine," Shawsy croaks, and it breaks something inside of him to hear how defeated he sounds. Like he's nothing, like it doesn't matter that some dick with a wife and kids is using Shawsy's face and throat, if his voice is any indication, as stress relief.  
"It's not okay," he says, and spends a satisfying few seconds imagining hunting down said dick and tearing him limb from limb for daring to lay a hand on Shawsy. He manages to shake it off and takes Shawsy by the arm. “We’re going to the emergency room,” he declares.

It’s oddly reassuring to feel him struggle against Brandon’s bulk, try and pull away while he mumbles, “No, no, we aren’t.” 

Brandon tugs him along anyway, making sure that when he stumbles he doesn’t actually fall and ignores him. 

“Come on, Brandon, don’t, please.”

It’s the ‘please’ that makes him stop finally, almost at the corner where his car is parked. Shawsy sounds so desperate, so different to the defeated way he told Brandon about the john.

“I think you have a concussion.” Brandon says, “You need to make sure something worse isn’t going on.” He doesn’t want to capitalise on this, of all things. Concussions are serious and the way Shawsy keeps slurring his vowels is worrying.

“He didn’t hit me that hard, okay. And it’s not your fucking respons... I’m not one of your strays!” 

Brandon flinches back, hurt. “They shouldn’t be hitting you anyway!” he shouts back, furious, ignoring Shawsy’s other comment. 

Shawsy doesn’t falter one bit. “This is my life! You were the one who got involved, and you don’t get to tell me what to do or how to do my job.” He sounds tired, not at all like the Shawsy that sits on Brandon’s couch every other night. “You never had to leave your family and everything you were and let dickheads fuck you and slap you around for the cash they have on hand. You got a fucking choice. I didn’t.”

Brandon’s chest hurts, like an elephant has been settled right on top of it and he takes two hitching breaths to try and clear the ache, blinking furiously so that he doesn’t give in to the urge to cry.

“Right,” he says, voice breaking a little in the middle, “Okay. Uh, lets just go to mine. I have a friend who can take a look at you.” Brandon’s trying desperately not to break down too obviously in front of Shawsy, feels like he doesn’t have a right to, not after everything that Shawsy’s been through, tonight and in all the nights before that.

They’re both quiet during the last few minutes of the walk home, and even the dogs seem to sense their mood when Brandon unlocks the door, milling quietly around their feet and then flopping in a pile in the middle of the living room. Shawsy sits down in the armchair rather than the sofa, huddling into himself, and Brandon _hurts_ with how much he just wants to wrap him up and tuck them both into bed.

He calls Jon instead, hoping his half-a-degree in sports medicine qualifies him to make sure Shawsy hasn’t got like, brain damage.

Jon answers with a brusque, “What.” and Brandon is completely taken aback before he hears Jon sigh and say, “Sorry. Hello?”

“Hey man,” Brandon says, “It’s Brandon. I need a favor.”

There’s a scuffling sound in the background, the rustle of fabric and some muted grumbling that Brandon can’t isolate before the obvious sound of a door slamming echoes along the line. 

“Uh, I hope I’m not interrupting man. You know I wouldn’t call if it wasn’t like, important.” Jon sighs again, soft and exhausted sounding.

“No, it’s fine. Just, a thing. What do you need?”

\- 

He’s there in under 30 minutes, with a ratty black bag held in one hand and a solid scowl on his face, different to his usual angry resting face. He takes in Shawsy, still hunched on the armchair, the only change the two cats that have appeared and draped themselves over his shoulders and legs.

“He should be in the hospital, B. I can’t even believe I agreed to this,” he mutters angrily.

“I know,” says Brandon, “But I couldn’t just leave him like this. Anything could have happened.” 

Jon’s face softens slightly and he claps a hand on Brandon’s shoulder and tells him to go sit down. “I’ll take care of it, okay?” he asks, and Brandon sighs, turning to leave the room. 

He settles on his bed with Rusty and presses his face into the quilt with a sigh. 

He must doze off because he jerks awake when Jon shouts, “For fucks sake! Brandon, get in here.” He stumbles back into the living room, exhausted and blinking blearily against the bright lights of the kitchen.

Shawsy’s perched on the countertop in the kitchen, head resting against the wall and hands curled in tight fists on his thighs.

Jon looks annoyed, mouth pursed angrily and Brandon sighs, "What's up?"

"He won't fucking relax," Jon spits and Brandon is lost, doesn't understand at all because Shawsy is never more relaxed than when he's in Brandon's apartment, but he takes in the clenched jaw and tightly curled fists and something awful dawns on him.

What if Brandon’s the first guy who didn’t try to pick him up, or, or hurt him? What if the twitchiness and refusal to stay for longer than a few hours was worry that Brandon was going to snap? The fact that Shawsy sees Jon as a threat, that he might have seen Brandon as a threat freezes the air in his lungs.

He takes a deep breath to shake it loose and steps closer, reclines next to Shawsy, leaning the weight of his shoulder against the narrow slab of Shawsy’s torso. 

Shawsy starts to speak and Brandon shushes him quietly. “Sleeping,” he explains and Jon chuckles. Shawsy unclenches his fists slowly, and lets Jon close enough to start checking the damage, asking him a list of nonsensical questions to determine if he has anything worse than a concussion, like permanent brain damage or a hematoma or something, Brandon guesses.

"You really should go get a scan," he tells Shawsy as he's packing up his bag of medical stuff. Brandon stirs slightly where he's slumped and drowsing lightly when Shawsy bristles. He doesn’t say anything, though, and Jon sighs. "Give me a call if anything changes or anything strange happens. He’s good to sleep, but keep an eye on him and take him to the ER if his pupils are different sizes or if he has a fever." He pauses and waits for Brandon to crack his eyelids open and glare balefully at him.

"I'll let you out," he finally sighs, squinting against the bright lights again before pushing himself upright and gestures Jon to follow him. “Go sit down,” he tells Shawsy and is more than a little shocked when he listens, settling back down on the sofa.

“Look, Jon...” he says when they get to the door, conscious that Shawsy is only a few feet away. “I really appreciate it, this. I...” He trails off, shifting uncomfortably, not knowing how to explain how much Shawsy means to him, this scrappy little kid with absolutely no sense of self worth or self-preservation worming his way under Brandon’s skin.

“B, I get it. Really. It’s fine.” Jo grabs him by the arm and gives him a little shake. “Just don’t make me do this again, eh?” Brandon laughs and reaches around to unbolt the door.

“Seriously though, thank you.” Jon nods and steps out, pulling the door shut behind him. Brandon locks up and then turns to check on Shawsy. He’s dozing on the couch, head tipped down onto his chest, cats once again curled up on his knee and draped across his shoulders. His shirt is blood spattered and his face is already bruising along one side, eyelashes long and delicate looking where they rest on his skin.

“Hey,” he calls softly, not wanting to startle Shawsy. He jerks upright anyway, casting about wildly and relaxing when he spots Brandon even as he winces against the ache in his head. “Do you want to get washed up while I get dinner?” 

Shawsy still looks a bit like a startled racoon, running the fingers of his free hand through one of the cat’s fur. Shawsy nods and croaks, “Yeah, thanks.” He doesn’t make any effort to get up, though, and Brandon walks over to the couch to grab his hand and help him upright. 

They’ve both gotten better at the whole casual touching thing since Shawsy first started coming round and so he doesn’t jump too obviously and instead makes sure to gently dislodge the cats before he lets Brandon tug him into the bathroom. Brandon leaves him there while he grabs a shirt and a pair of old sweatpants that he hopes won’t drown Shawsy too much, as well as a pair of socks and the zip up sweatshirt he left draped over the chair in the corner of the room that tends to collect dirty laundry.

Shawsy is shirtless and dabbing at his face with a flannel when Brandon nudges his way inside and he sets the clothes down with a smile before he heads back and into the kitchen, shaking his head against the overwhelming image of Shawsy and the smooth expanse of skin he’d left on show, the dip of back and his sharp collarbones overwhelming Brandon for a second. 

He gets on with cooking up some tins of soup and hunting through the cupboard for bread that isn’t entirely green with mould. He’s just tipping the soup into mugs when Shawsy appears and Brandon’s thoughts stutter over themselves, completely tongue tied when he sees the way Shawsy is swimming in his shirt and pants, collar slipping down over one shoulder to frame the collarbones he was thinking so intently about a few minutes ago. It makes something in Brandon’s stomach clench until he looks away.

Shawsy rests against the doorframe and sniffs the air intently. “Tomato?” he asks and Brandon nods dumbly, trying and failing not to stare at the rolled up waistband of his pants and the way they still pool around Shawsy’s ankles anyway.

They eat in silence, only the occasional slurp disturbing the quiet. Shawsy finishes first, always wolfs down his food like it’s going to disappear from off of his plate. (Brandon wonders if that has actually happened in the past, and it makes him offer Shawsy extra helpings. His sandwich is always bigger than Brandon’s own.) 

It’s warm in the apartment and Brandon is still sleepy from his half-nap earlier, it takes more effort than it should for him to roll his head sideways on the back of couch to look at Shawsy but he’s glad when he finally manages it.

Shawsy is asleep again, body lax and head lolling back slightly. His mouth is open and the air whistles out of his nose every time he breathes out. Brandon’s breath stutters in his chest, something that’s becoming an uncomfortable habit the more time he spends around Shawsy, and he shuts his eyes again, trying to shut out the image of Shawsy looking relaxed in his apartment with the collar of one of his shirts slipping down to reveal his collarbones.

Shawsy isn’t delicate in any sense of the word, but there’s something breathtaking about the way he looks when measured against Brandon, and though his clothes are a weak stand in for Brandon himself, it still makes his heart beat faster and his palms sweat to see Shawsy in his clothes.

He feels guilty for thinking any of this shit when Shawsy is asleep and defenseless and so trusting of Brandon. He tamps down on the vicious whisper of “You’re no better than any of _them_ ” because despite everything, he _is_ better, he has to be. 

He’s so tired, limbs lead heavy, but he forces himself off of the sofa, throwing a blanket down on the chair next to Shawsy and walking quietly to his room. Shawsy will probably be gone by the morning, and Brandon would worry that he’ll be annoyed that Brandon didn’t wake him, but he’s asleep almost before he’s fully under the covers.

-

It’s the clattering that wakes Brandon up, and he’s skidding into the kitchen in his socked feet a few seconds later, gun in hand. It’s Shawsy (of course it is) and Brandon blinks and wonders if he’s dreaming, because not only is Shawsy _still here_ , he’s making breakfast. There are eggs cracked in bowls on the counter, and two pans filled with sausage and bacon with mushrooms and tomato, the little square table in the corner has been pulled away from the wall and has two sets of knives and forks laid out on opposite sides. Brandon feels a little faint, from the head rush and from the sheer surprise, he imagines.

“I...” Brandon starts, rubbing a hand over his face. Shawsy freezes, looking embarrassed for all of half a second before he sets his jaw. 

“I’m making breakfast.” he says, unapologetic. “Sit down.” 

Brandon sits, even though he kind of wants to go for a piss and brush the sour taste from his mouth. Shawsy turns away, apparently satisfied and the only sound for a while is the sizzle of fat in the pans. There’s nothing to do but watch and really, Brandon doesn’t _want_ to do anything else. 

Now that he’s relaxed, Shawsy looks different, not any more at ease than he normally is, just softer. His hair has shaken loose most of the gel that he usually has caked in it, and his feet are bare, looking oddly delicate where they peek out from the rolled up hems of his borrowed sweat pants. 

He keeps tugging at the hem of Brandon’s tshirt too, one of the ones from when he was in highschool, graying and worn thin with age. It has ‘BOLLIG’ printed across the back, with his jersey number underneath. The logo on the front has mostly worn away but Brandon can just pick out the individual letters of his name and it makes something inside of him feel overwhelmingly possessive. That feeling doesn’t really go away after that. 

It’s there all through breakfast, swimming in grease and somehow exactly what Brandon wanted. It’s there through washing all the dishes while Shawsy sits on top of the counter and watches him because “It’s only fair, seeing as I cooked.”

It’s there when Shawsy goes to shower, leaving the bathroom door the tiniest bit open in a probably unconscious display of trust, but one that makes Brandon’s heart leap into his throat regardless. 

He holds himself carefully in check until Shawsy comes out of the bathroom. It’s like a scene out of a movie, steam billowing out from behind him, towel held loosely around his hips, hair dripping wet and sending water cascading in thin streams down his torso. He’s not built like Brandon, he’s thinner, leaner, muscles less defined and there are some worrying yellow/brown bruises on his ribs. 

Brandon takes a deep breath and tears his eyes away, turning back to what he was doing. What was I doing again? he thinks, staring down at the drawer he was rifling through.

“Clothes.” he says out loud, and then blushes scarlet. He’s fine, he’s absolutely fine, until Shawsy comes to stand beside him, leaving damp footprints on the carpet.

He’s warm and wet and he presses all along one side of Brandon’s body with an almost imperceptible sigh. He’s frozen until Shawsy lifts a gentle hand to rest against his jaw and tilts Brandon’s head until they’re face to face. Shawsy’s smiling and Brandon _can’t not_ anymore. 

He presses closer, kissing Shawsy soft and closed-mouthed, one, two, three seconds of bliss before Shawsy pulls away and Brandon’s chest feels like it’s caving in, until Shawsy takes his hand, pulling a handful of cloth from between his slack fingers. He imagines he must look shocked, totally blindsided by the power of his own feelings and the phantom press of Shawsy’s mouth to his. 

Shawsy surges up to kiss him again, slipping his tongue against Brandon’s, coaxing him to respond. He can’t help the way his mind is flooding with all the things he’s thought about doing with Shawsy, all the ways he wants to take him apart. 

Mostly, he just wants to do this right, go slow and treat Shawsy like he always deserves to be treated. They can’t have been kissing for long, but Brandon is breathless and he has to pull away to breathe. 

Shawsy’s mouth is wet with saliva and he reaches up to wipe it with the back of his free hand.

Brandon is thrown sharply back to reality and takes two quick steps backwards, puts space between him and Shawsy, who’s still clad only in a towel and looking thoroughly kissed, lips swollen from the pressure of Brandon’s mouth. He’s horrified with himself and Shawsy wiping at his mouth again just makes him feel _worse_. That action reminds him so entirely of the night they first met, Shawsy wiping away the taste of that middle class, asshole john. 

He’s disgusted at himself, so wrapped up in it that he doesn’t notice how Shawsy’s face has shuttered until he says, “Fuck, alright. You just had to say. I’m not fucking diseased you dick.”

“No!” Brandon’s quick to reassure him. “I just, I can’t... you don’t owe me anything Andrew.” 

If anything that makes Shawsy look worse, mouth twisting into a scowl, eyes dark and furious. He spits out, “You fucking dick! What the fuck, I can’t fucking like somebody or want to have sex with them unless I’m getting paid?” He’s obviously pissed and Brandon moves closer again, puts a hand on Shawsy arm. 

He’s trembling and Brandon feels _awful_. This has already spiralled so out of control, he’s floundering.

“No!” he tries again, “That’s not what-” 

Shawsy cuts him off with a deadly cold, “Get your fucking hands off me.” 

Brandon recoils. “Please...” he tries but Shawsy glares, grabbing whatever clothes are closest and turning his back to start getting dressed. “Please, I didn’t...” 

Brandon pauses and Shawsy explodes again, pulling on the sweats in jagged movements before turning to face him, still shirtless and red with anger.

“Didn’t what? Mean it? Maybe you didn’t mean to say it Brandon, but you were fucking thinking it. ‘Dirty fucking whore, not even good enough to fuck’. You’re just like everyone else.” He stops, looking every inch his age when he adds, “I thought you were different.” 

Shawsy is a whirlwind, getting closer to the bedroom door with each furious pass and Brandon can’t let him leave thinking what he’s thinking. Brandon _is_ different.

“I want you.” He says quietly, and it gets lost in Shawsy’s stomping. Mrs Bierman on the floor below isn’t going to appreciate that. “I want you.” He tries again, louder and Shawsy stops making a mess with his fidgeting to shout angrily.

“What the fuck ever, Officer.” He still doesn’t get it and Brandon groans in frustration.

“You’re not listening.” Shawsy laughs, an awful broken sounding thing asking incredulously, 

“I’m not listening?” He asks, incredulous and Brandon can’t hold back the tide of words that have building in the dark depths of his chest for weeks now.

“I want you here, in my life. I want you to fall asleep with me every night and walk my fucking dogs. I want to come home and have you here, I want you to make me fucking breakfast every day and then I want you to laugh at me while I wash the dishes.” Shawsy has finally stopped walking around, is standing with his back to Brandon completely still. He’s not facing him, but Brandon can tell he’s listening. “I want you,” he says a third time, completely open, nothing left. He just has to pray that Shawsy wants him too.

Brandon isn’t sure what Shawsy is thinking, a confusing array of emotions flickering across his face faster than Brandon can identify them. Slowly, Shawsy starts putting down his things and Brandon’s heart leaps up to settle in his throat, anxious hope blossoming in his empty chest. Shawsy takes two faltering steps before he throws himself at Brandon, trusting him to catch them both. 

Brandon drops back onto the couch with a quiet laugh and Shawsy ducks down to kiss the smile from his mouth. Shawsy kisses with intent, arms wrapping solidly around Brandon’s neck to pull him even closer. He twists their tongues together in a filthy, wet slide that makes Brandon’s hands shake where they rest on Shawsy’s waist. 

Shawsy settles back on the meat of Brandon’s thighs, getting rid of their height difference in a way that doesn’t hurt either of them. Brandon imagines the stretch of kissing him if they were stood up would pull on Shawsy’s bruised ribs. Brandon pulls away for a second to gasp two desperate, heaving breaths and Shawsy makes a protesting noise and tries to press back into a kiss and goes stiff and awkward when Brandon continues to deny him.

“We should... we should talk, I think? Right?” Brandon tries, and Shawsy relaxes and laughs, melts into his chest and kisses him again hard and fast, before pulling back and tugging lightly at the fistful of hair he has in his left hand. He’s obviously not expecting the reaction he gets, the way Brandon’s entire body turns to liquid, moving away until Shawsy has to tighten his hand and hold Brandon’s head up, or let go. He pulls harder and Brandon can’t help the moan that spills out of him and echoes around the room.

“I think you’ve talked enough for both of us,” he says, smiling against Brandon’s mouth. “We should...” he starts and then falls silent and pulls Brandon to his feet shaking out the hand he had clenched in Brandon’s hair and moving unmistakably towards the bedroom.

Brandon doesn’t argue. Brandon _goes_.

It’s dark, curtains blocking out all but the most persistent of rays and Brandon’s eyes are still adjusting when Shawsy is on him again, biting sharply at his jaw and using his wickedly sharp elbows to nudge Brandon towards the bed, climbing on top of him again and falling into a kiss that makes Brandon’s toes curl against the quilt. He can’t believe this is happening.

“What do you want?” Shawsy asks, and Brandon smiles, squeezes his hands lightly where they sit on Shawsy’s waist.

“This is fine.” he replies and then adds, “Good. Great!” when Shawsy’s face goes tight and frustrated looking. Brandon is tired of floundering when he thinks everything is fine.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the solid few inches of space Brandon has put between their now fully clothed bodies, “isn’t fine.” He sits back into the cradle of Brandon’s hips and rolls down in a sinuous writhe that lets Brandon feel the hard ridge of Shawsy’s dick against his. “I want to blow you,” he announces, grinding down again and making any words Brandon could have formed catch in his throat. 

His entire body feels too hot, palms sweating, thighs overheated in his sweatpants. Shawsy pulls away and tugs off his shirt in one fluid movement, standing up to strip out of his pants and gesturing impatiently at Brandon to do the same. 

Brandon wants to check again, make sure Shawsy is definitely into this, and he opens his mouth to ask and chokes on them again when Shawsy wraps his hand around his dick, jerking himself a couple of times until pre-come beads at the tip. 

Brandon’s mouth is watering, suddenly desperate to get on his knees and show Shawsy how hot he finds him, but Shawsy is already stepping closer again and tugging insistently on Brandon’s shirt.

“Come on,” he says, shoulders set like he’s bracing for a fight again. Brandon gets naked and Shawsy relaxes between one second and the next.

It's slow and easy after that, a stillness falling over them that Brandon didn't think Shawsy had in him.

Shawsy looms over him, presses his mouth to Brandon's collarbones, bites gently at the dip underneath his pecs, sucks a mark that stings lightly into the hollow of his hip. Shawsy is taking his time, tracking over every inch of Brandon like he's committing him to memory.

It seems to take an age for Shawsy to get where Brandon wants him. He shivers when Shawsy presses his mouth to the weight of Brandon's balls, breathing hotly where they're already pulling up against his body, limbs twitching at the feel of Shawsy's mouth so close to his dick.

He moans when Shawsy screws his mouth down, down, down on Brandon's cock, swallowing around the thick head like it's nothing. Brandon holds his hips still against the bed through sheer force of will, and the strength of his core, muscled from too many sleepless nights doing crunches until he collapsed. Shawsy pulls off while he’s still concentrating on the increasing burn in his stomach, cooler air hitting the spit slick surface of his dick and making him shudder desperately at the temperature change. He can't help the way he arches his back, spine popping with the sudden movement and Shawsy doesn't back off fast enough. Brandon's dick catches him square in the eye. 

Brandon expects him to curse and back up, but all he does is rub at his eye and blink rapidly even as it turns red and starts streaming. Something in Brandon goes cold with the realisation that Shawsy has probably suffered silently through worse. It’s enough to have his insistent hard-on flagging. The urge to push Shawsy away again rises like bile, and he swallows it back and pulls Shawsy back up until they're face to face, before he rolls them both over and presses Shawsy into the mattress with the bigger bulk of his body.

Shawsy chokes out a desperate sounding "Brandon," and he stops immediately, lifts his weight up onto his forearms, worried suddenly that he’s squashing Shawsy, until Shawsy groans and tugs him down again with his arms around Brandon's back and his legs snug around Brandon's hips.

Brandon kisses him, long and thorough, until his mouth aches from the pressure and then he pulls away.

“I don’t ever want to hurt you,” he says, peppering Shawsy’s eyebrow and cheekbone with kisses.

Shawsy doesn't say anything for a moment, seems caught up in what Brandon just said, and then it passes and Brandon remembers suddenly that he's naked in a bed with another naked person and Shawsy seems to get it too, because he wriggles, gasps, "Let me..." and Brandon kisses him to shut him up before ducking down to tongue at the purpling head of Shawsy's dick. 

Shawsy breath goes tight and shocky and Brandon doesn't want to think about why, doesn’t want to think at all, so he swallows as much of Shawsy as he can, wraps the length he can’t in his fist and sets a rhythm that leaves him a little lightheaded and makes Shawsy _shout_ on every downstroke.

When Shawsy comes it takes them both by surprise, Brandon’s caught short with his lips pressed to the very tip of Shawsy’s dick, knees liquid from the tight grip Shawsy has on his hair, and Shawsy’s come dripping in thick trails down his chin. Shawsy groans, low and deep and tugs Brandon up for a kiss, mouthing at his face to catch all of his come and kissing the taste of it into Brandon’s mouth.

“I gotta get home.” Shawsy sighs after a few seconds, still a little breathless, and Brandon’s heart freezes in his chest.

“Oh,” he says, an almost involuntary sound of surprise, “Where... I mean.” He stops. Shawsy’s glaring at him fiercely. 

“What, did you think I didn’t have somewhere to live? Is that why you’re always asking me to stay over? Why in the fuck do you think I do what I do? I have bills to pay just like you Brandon, Jesus.” He’s staring moodily at the closed door, arms crossed defensively across his bare chest and Brandon can’t help the little sigh he lets out. At least this is better than before, when Shawsy was already half out the door before Brandon could even think about speaking.

“No.” he replies finally, “I honestly just didn’t think about it much. Is it at least... are you safe?” he asks and Shawsy laugh splinters him,

“Yeah Brandon,” he says mockingly, “I’m safe.”

“I don’t think... I don’t know what you think I’m implying Shawsy, but I’m not. I’m just worried about you, you do that for people you...” he pauses, “People that you care about.” Shawsy doesn’t say anything, but he lets his hands fall softly to the quilt, fisting it in one hand and Brandon relaxes.

“You should stay, for a bit.” Brandon says, not sure where this impulse to keep Shawsy here with him has sprung from. He’s looking at Shawsy’s hand, aching to reach over and stroke his fingers over the bulging tendons of his forearm, gentle them, and by default the tense set of Shawsy’s body.

“I want to, but I really do have to go.” Shawsy says softly and Brandon nods, accepting. 

“Lunch tomorrow?” Brandon asks, instead of arguing. He never wants Shawsy to feel like he can’t get away.

“Yeah, course.” Shawsy says and then gets up to start getting dressed, tugging on the pair of pants that had been kicked to the floor during their activities. Brandon takes in the state of the room and he can feel the blood rushing to his cheeks, face lighting up pink and red across the breadth of his face. It only gets worse when Shawsy starts heading for the door, dogs whuffling from the other side of the plasterboard. 

He goes to pull it open and then darts back to the bed, kissing Brandon fast and hard before he dashes away again, calling goodbye just before the front door slams closed.

-

It's a long time before Brandon stops treating Shawsy like he's breakable (though he can never quite stop looking at Shawsy like he's everything.) He's so gentle at first, soft kisses and quiet whispers, hands stroking along Shawsy's heaving sides and petting over his face, always careful when they fuck, curling his hands so tightly in the bed sheets that they tear. There's all this strength that Shawsy never gets to feel, sees it in everything Brandon does, from training to walking their dogs. 

The first time Brandon picks him up and holds him up against the wall, six months into their relationship, he actually comes in his pants, partly from the pressure of Brandon's thigh and partly from the sheer power, the bulging muscles that hold him securely even while he squirms against Brandon, latching onto his neck and sucking hard while his raggedly bitten nails claw at Brandon's shoulders.

Shawsy heads it off before it can become a fight, before Brandon starts acting all self-sacrificing.

“Look,” he says, as soon as Brandon’s let him down from the wall and he’s caught his breath, “I fucking love when you get rough with me. I love that you’re bigger than me and stronger and I know you’d never push me around unless I wanted it.” He pauses, “But I wanted it okay. Not all the time but fuck, B, that was so hot.” 

His knees are still a little weak and he stumbles getting to the bed, leaving Brandon with his mouth agape staring down at him.

Brandon still looks shocked, but he closes his mouth after way too long for the health of Shawsy’s still racing heart, and nods.


	2. Meeting the Parents

_8 Months Later_

“They don’t like me.” Shawsy says in a harsh whisper and Brandon holds in a sigh. They’ve been over this _at least_ three times already today, and countless more since Brandon’s parents announced they were coming to stay for Thanksgiving weekend.

“What’s not to like, babe?” Brandon asks and Shawsy glares at him fiercely.

“You mean beyond the fact that I’m your much younger ex-hooker boyfriend?”

“You’re only 4 years younger than me, and they don’t even know that much about you. We’ve been over this okay? I told them you used to be in a bad situation but you’re good now. You can go tell them about your new job.” 

Shawsy still doesn’t look impressed, but some of tension goes out of his shoulders. Brandon kisses him softly. 

“Plus, I love you. Why wouldn’t they?” 

It still gives Brandon a thrill to be able to say that. Shawsy goes a little pink.

“I love you too,” he says gruffly, pressing his forehead against Brandon’s shoulder before grabbing for the bottle opener he came for in the first place. He squares his shoulders and heads back into the lounge. A few seconds later the murmur of conversation picks up again and Brandon can’t quite stifle the huff of relieved breath he releases. 

He spends a few more minutes fussing with the food before he shouts, “Dinner!” and Shawsy comes skidding into the kitchen followed by the dogs. It’s enough to have made Brandon burst out laughing if he wasn’t worried Shawsy would take it the wrong way, especially on a day like today.

“You want to take the turkey?” Brandon asks instead handing over the heavy plate and watching Shawsy’s shoulders shift to take the weight. He follows him out of the kitchen to the table and it takes them a few trips to carry out all of the food. His parents are sitting side by side on the sofa watching them and smirking which, Brandon will deal with _that_ later. 

He’s just happy that Shawsy is actually here, with Brandon and his family, having Thanksgiving together. It’s something Brandon hadn’t let himself imagine until now when it’s actually happening, his Dad carving the turkey and Shawsy blushing through answering his Mom’s questions about the animals.


	3. A cop walks into a bar...

They’re in a bar when the shout goes up. 

“B!” There’s a chorus of voices and Brandon’s head shoots up. He takes his arm from around Shawsy’s shoulders to wave over at the 6 or 7 people heading in their direction. Shawsy takes in a panicked sounding breath that Brandon barely hears over the shouting of his colleagues.

“We’ll get drinks.” They shout over and Brandon waves distractedly while he asks Shawsy,

“Hey, you okay?” Shawsy tries to smile. The worried crease between Brandon’s eyes deepens so it probably didn’t look particularly convincing. “They’re just work friends, babe.”

Shawsy goes even paler. “They’re all cops?” His voice shakes. “I should go. I need to go.” He stands up but Brandon is blocking the entrance to the booth.

“What?” Brandon asks, surprised. “No, it’s fine, they probably only want to say hi.”

“Brandon, I don’t want to be here. Let me the fuck go.” He’s pushing at Brandon’s shoulder and sounding more panicked by the second. Brandon is bewildered, they drove here together, so Shawsy can’t go anywhere without getting the bus or calling a cab and he still doesn’t even understand what’s going on. He gets out of Shawsy’s way anyway and he’s out of the door between one blink and the next.

“What’s up, B?” Danny asks when he meets them at the bar.

“I actually gotta run, sorry guys,” he says and a groan goes up.

“Man, we haven’t seen you outside of the office in months, what the fuck.” Brandon waves them off. He’s too worried about what’s going on in Shawsy’s head to care about Danny and the guys. 

"We'll work something out. I really have to run."

Shawsy is standing outside breathing heavily and okay, at least he didn’t disappear. That’s progress.

“Did you know they were going to be there?” Shawsy asks when he spots Brandon hovering beside him.

“Of course not! We always drink there that’s all. I don’t understand what’s going on!” Brandon says, obviously confused.

“You don’t think maybe it might be a problem to introduce your whore boyfriend to all the police officers you work with? What the fuck Brandon!”

Brandon goes silent, kicking himself internally because of course Shawsy feels insecure around the people he works with. Some of them probably arrested him before. As much as Brandon considers it something of a blessing, because that was how they met, Brandon can see why he wouldn’t want to meet somebody who might know him from _before_.

“You’re not... not that.” Brandon says quietly, the only part of what Shawsy just said that he feels like he can argue against.

“Oh what the fuck ever.” Shawsy spits back at him, but he’s still standing opposite Brandon, arms crossed over his chest defensively.

“I’m sorry. Let’s go home, yeah?”

Shawsy’s quiet for a second and his, “Yeah, please,” when it comes is so quiet and vulnerable sounding that Brandon aches.


	4. I love you's

Brandon thinks it’s important for them to get to know each other’s friends, is invested in meeting _somebody_ Shawsy knows outside of Brandon, Jon and the three people he works with at the animal shelter. 

He knows Shawsy’s uncomfortable with meeting Brandon’s friends from work, and he keeps insisting there’s nobody from before worth introducing to Brandon.

But then they’re out shopping one day when Brandon hears a squeal and a distinctly female voice shouts, “Oh my god, _Shawsy_!” 

Shawsy almost falls over himself to go hug her, Ems, she’s called, and she’s the complete opposite of what Brandon expected. 

They abandon their shopping and go for coffee at the place over the road. Ems has a freaking designer handbag and she’s all done up with big fat diamond earrings and she has the most amazing teeth. She’s a million miles from the girls Brandon’s seen brought in late at night. Shawsy explains later that she’s an escort now, officially, files her taxes and shit, has steady clients, Brandon’s probably seen her on the front of gossip magazines. 

She kisses Shawsy square on the mouth when they split up to leave and he scrubs pink lipstick away and blushes. When Brandon kisses him later he tastes a little perfumed still, waxy like lipstick. He files it away, how much he likes the taste on Shawsy’s mouth. Ems is nice, and it’s nice to see Shawsy all relaxed and laughing and joking.

“I’m glad I got to meet her.” Brandon says when they’re in bed that night, expecting Shawsy to pull away from him. Instead he smiles, cuddles a little closer and kisses Brandon, closed mouth and sweet. 

“I guess I forgot that not everything was bad before? I don’t know, I didn’t want you to have to remember what I was like.” He shrugs and it’s the most honest Shawsy’s ever been with Brandon. It makes Brandon equal parts happy and sad, happy that he’s sharing and sad that he thought Brandon doesn’t love every part of him, past, present and future.

“I love you.” Brandon says, instead of any of that, and Shawsy’s grin is so good—almost as good as the way he mumbles, “I love you too,” into Brandon’s mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> A huge massive thanks to [ radioaches ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/radioaches/) who had a hand in this, to [ Tegan ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LightsOut/) who has literally listened to me whine about this for almost two entire years and also made me finally post it, and of course to my beta's whose usernames I don't have, but who I wish to give many kisses for fixing all the crap I'm too rubbish to sort out myself.
> 
> The title of this is from Lines Written in Early Spring by William Wordsworth. I know.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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